006 Preparations Before the Autumn Festival

The Empire was a land of many festivals, each region boasting its own distinctive celebrations. Yet, there were but a handful of truly significant festivities, with one for each season. The Autumn Eve Festival, named after the very season itself, was among the most important, a time of nationwide jubilation. For two or three weeks before it began, the entire country was abuzz with preparations for three days of revelry. Chief among these tasks were selecting splendid festival gowns and responding to an endless stream of invitations to various events.

The morning after the autumn hunt, Teresa was still at breakfast when Betty, already dressed to perfection and trailing a delicate fragrance, swept into the dining room. She seated herself beside Teresa and said, “Tess, after breakfast, come with your aunt into town for a while.”

Swallowing her food and dabbing her lips with a napkin, Teresa replied, “Aunt Betty, are we going to try on our festival dresses? Just the two of us? What about Uncle Amos and the others?”

Half a month prior, Betty had summoned a group of tailors to take measurements of all five members of the household, announcing her plans for Autumn Eve festival attire. Now, it was precisely the time for the first fittings, and seeing Betty so elegantly attired, Teresa quickly guessed her intent.

Betty laughed, planting a kiss on Teresa’s cheek. “You’re as sharp as ever, Tess. Yes, we’re off to try on our dresses, and while we’re at it, we’ll stop by the flower market to bring home some beautiful blooms. Your Uncle Amos is too busy to join us, but he’ll have his fitting after work. As for those two rascals… hmpf, don’t mention them! Imagine, they actually complained I was making too much fuss. Never mind them—let’s enjoy ourselves and show them what real taste looks like.”

Teresa couldn’t help but find Betty’s pique over such trivial matters amusing. She took Betty’s hand, giving it a gentle, playful shake. “Pedya and Achille have no appreciation for these things. We’ll just ignore them! By the way, Aunt Betty, what flowers are we buying today? I’ve heard the purple autumn bells from Cervantes are especially famous.”

“We’ll certainly get purple autumn bells, and some other seasonal flowers—there are so many varieties to choose from.” Betty, her mood lightened by the change of subject, tapped Teresa’s nose affectionately. “But first, finish your breakfast, my dear. You’ll need your strength to help me pick out the best blooms, won’t you?”

With a sweet smile, Teresa turned back to her meal, dutifully finishing her breakfast.

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Purple Rose was the Empire’s most renowned chain of fashion salons, originating in the capital and flourishing in its major cities. Only the most prominent nobility and influential figures passed through its doors. Although the Aubrion family had long since lost its former glory, Amos remained one of Cervantes’ few real power holders, and Betty herself was by no means lacking in status. Thus, they were welcomed as honored guests of Purple Rose.

The salon was situated at the intersection of East and South Cervantes, a district where art and aristocracy intertwined. The standalone building nestled quietly in a lively alley, its delicate lavender and ivory façade lending it an air of refined elegance.

Naturally, their fitting appointment had been arranged well in advance. As a mage, Betty’s sense of time was impeccable; their carriage stopped in front of Purple Rose precisely five minutes before their scheduled arrival. She guided Teresa down, lifted her skirts with one hand, and, taking Teresa’s hand with the other, led her through the ornate iron gates. Inside was a welcoming lounge, bathed in warm hues and soft fabrics, offering a sense of homely comfort. Three women were already seated on the upholstered sofas: one, about fifty, dressed in austere simplicity with the air of a housekeeper; the other two, mother and daughter, appeared to be lesser nobility, the mother in her thirties and the daughter barely twelve or thirteen. Likely, they had come on the recommendation of a member, seeking Purple Rose’s special fitting services, as their own standing would not suffice for membership.

Purple Rose, catering to the elite, also extended its services to certain non-members bearing a coveted letter of recommendation. The number of such letters each member could issue was strictly limited—from three per year for the lowest level, to one per month for the highest. This scarcity made such recommendations highly prized.

The lounge was semi-open in design. Betty, entering through the members’ passage, could clearly see the room, while those inside could glimpse nothing beyond—a privilege reserved for members. As they entered, a young lady approached, curtsied gracefully, and greeted, “Madam Aubrion, Miss Borger, good day. Madam Annie is awaiting you in the fitting suite on the third floor.”

Teresa could not help but marvel at Purple Rose’s attention to detail. She was merely an orphan taken in by the Aubrion family, yet the salon had accurately ascertained her identity, despite her complete absence from Cervantes’ social scene. Such influence was truly remarkable.

After her silent wonder, Teresa composed herself at Betty’s side, smiling demurely. Though she listened to the polite conversation between Betty and the attendant, her thoughts wandered far away. She stood there, lost in reverie, until the soft patter of approaching footsteps drew her attention. Instinctively, she glanced aside and saw the mother and daughter from the lounge being led away by another attendant.

Her gaze swept over them almost idly, but as her eyes landed on the young girl—slightly older than herself—she suddenly froze. There was something uncannily familiar about the girl’s face, though she could not at once recall what it was. She yearned to look closer and unravel the thread of memory, but at that moment, Betty squeezed her hand gently, bringing her back to herself. The attendant said, “This way, please,” and Teresa had no choice but to follow her aunt toward the fitting suite.

Teresa never noticed that, just as she disappeared into the members’ passage with Betty, the younger girl who had entered the corridor a few steps behind them stared after her, her expression full of doubt and uncertainty. It took a discreet pinch from her mother to bring her back to her senses.

Catching her mother’s warning glance, the girl lowered her eyes and resumed the composed air of a young lady, following by her mother’s side. Yet a lingering confusion still shadowed her brow.

☆☆☆

“Nancy, what’s wrong with you today? You were daydreaming the whole time during the fitting at Purple Rose.” Lady Bitref regarded her daughter with a furrowed brow, clearly displeased. To have a fitting at Purple Rose was a rare privilege, and yet her daughter had been distracted all morning—a thoroughly disappointing performance.

Nancy pouted slightly before replying in a sweet voice, “Mother, I wasn’t daydreaming—I was thinking.”

Lady Bitref could not help but laugh in exasperation. “Well, then, what were you thinking about all morning?”

“Do you remember, Mother, when we left the lounge, we passed those two on the way?” Nancy tilted her head, seeking confirmation.

How could Lady Bitref forget? Anyone passing through the members’ corridor was a person of extraordinary standing. With a hint of envy and longing, she replied, “They must have been Purple Rose members—people of rare status. If only your father could someday qualify for such a privilege for us! But why do you ask, Nancy? Do you know them?”

“I don’t… or, at least, I shouldn’t…” Nancy’s reply was hesitant. “Mother, I just thought that girl looked very familiar—she looked like Teresa from the Brenton family. You remember, three years ago, when I stayed at Aunt’s house in Narenstan, I lived with her for a month.”

“Teresa?” Lady Bitref repeated the name slowly, then realization dawned. “You mean your uncle’s illegitimate niece—the girl with the mysterious parentage? Impossible! You must be mistaken. How could a child of such disgrace ever set foot in Purple Rose?”

Lady Bitref’s certainty was infectious, and Nancy nodded, relieved. “You’re right, Mother, it’s impossible. What was I thinking? She couldn’t possibly be in Cervantes, let alone at Purple Rose!” The more she spoke, the more absurd her earlier suspicions seemed, and she felt a faint embarrassment at her own imagination.